


The Cupids of London

by canolacrush



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Cupids, F/M, Gen, I just can't be tamed, I really just wanted this to be fluff, M/M, Mem get out of my subscriber's list YOU WON THE GAME ALREADY, Mem this is your fault, Minor Character(s), Multi, Other, POV minor characters, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, everyone's a cupid, guys I'm warning you there's angst, where did the angst come from?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush/pseuds/canolacrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In April 2011, the four London “Cupids” were gathered together at the Criterion Restaurant, puzzling over something that had never happened before—a relationship that refused to take: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cupids of London

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I'm warning you again, there's going to be ANGST. REICHENBACH ANGST. If this is a thing we can't deal with, it might be better to turn your car around. But for the rest of you--hope you enjoy the ride! And the minor character bonanza.

The Gift comes to them in a dream—it is impossible to know how it selects them.  Often, it selects those who are aimless, scrambling for purpose, the ones who dream of changing the world for the better but have not the resources.  Other times, it plucks from the happy lot, the ones who already had their lives in comfortable order and never envisioned becoming something greater.  And even still, it sometimes takes the most vile hearts and seduces them into submission, forcing them to work for good even when they wish to do nothing but lash out against the world.

 

Whatever their circumstances, those who receive The Gift all have one thing in common: the dream.  There were some differences here and there—sometimes the being they saw was a man, sometimes a woman, a child, an elder, and sometimes even a being of no particular classification, a being that shifted between these forms.  But in this dream, the dreamer crawls on hands and knees through a dark, primordial forest, eyes downcast, unable to look past the sight of their hands scraping through mud.  Suddenly, a golden light catches their attention, and they turn their head left and see a clearing with the being standing in the middle, dressed in a white so bright it is as if the sun were reflecting off still water.  The dreamer crawls toward the clearing.  Halfway there, they stand.  Then they run, and they run until they reach the being, who smiles at them.  Unbidden, the dreamer raises their palms toward the being.

 

The being gently takes their hands, smiling still, and says, “Child, can you not speak?”

 

The dreamer shakes their head.

 

“Then speak,” the being says, and voice erupts from the dreamer in a hiccup.  The being laughs.  The dreamer laughs too, and the being lifts their hands to its lips, kissing each one softly.

 

“Will you do my work?” the being asks.

 

The dreamer, unhesitating, says “Yes,” and the last they see is the being smiling widely, an enormity of white light.

 

The dreamer wakes grinning, feeling peaceful and warm.

 

It takes the dreamers awhile to figure out that something has changed.  By and large, their own lives don’t change at all—they go on being doctors, mothers, pickpockets, janitors, grandfathers, artists, zamboni drivers.  Then they begin to notice that everyone around them is getting married, that their own names keep popping up in “How We Met” sections of couples’ wedding sites, that they are frequently designated best men and maids/matrons of honor.  People laughingly tease about their expert matchmaking skills.  The blind dates they set up for their acquaintances have a 100% success rate.

 

Mike Stamford is the oldest of them in the group—he received the dream when he was six.  For the longest time, he’d dismissed the dream as nothing, just the imaginings of a shy pudgy kid wanting a friend.  But in secondary school, his friends kept coming to him for relationship advice, and it kept working.  Again and again it worked—even the one time when he and his best mate had fancied the same girl, and he’d deliberately tried to give his mate bad advice, the advice had worked.  By the time he’d got his doctorate degree, Mike had attended thirty-eight weddings, fifteen of which he’d been the best man, six of which he’d given the bride away, twelve of which he’d been a groomsman, four of which he’d been a bridesman, and one memorable time he’d simply been an emergency witness at a city hall elopement.  The wedding planners of London all knew him by name, and the outfitters automatically knew his size whenever he needed a new waistcoat to match the couple’s wedding colors (“The usual, Mike?” they liked to joke, as though he were a regular at a restaurant).

 

Mike met Angelo—the second oldest in the group, having received The Gift at age 16—by complete accident.  It had been the weekend after Valentine’s Day 2007, and they had both been sitting at a bus stop watching a young man and a young woman hurrying through the rain to the bus stop whilst carrying bags of shopping.  The man and the woman had arrived from opposite directions, but they huddled somewhat close together so that all four of them could fit under the shelter’s space and escape the downpour.  They’d set their bags on the dry pavement to close and shake out their umbrellas.  When the bus had arrived, Angelo noticed that the young man had accidentally taken one of the woman’s bags and pointed it out, and just like that, Mike and Angelo became witnesses to a quiet flirtation that started between the man and the woman.

 

The bus had been crowded that day, and Mike and Angelo were forced to grab adjacent hand loops to wait out the ride.  They’d watched the newly forming couple make eyes at each other and smile.

 

“It warms the heart to see young love blooming,” Angelo had murmured conspiratorially.

 

Mike had smiled and murmured back, “Never gets old, does it?”

 

“No.  I’ve been to twenty weddings.  I cry like a baby every time,” Angelo said with a wink.

 

Mike raised an eyebrow.  “Big family?”

 

Angelo gave him a bit of a sad smile.  “No, just me.  But many happy friends.”

 

Mike had felt dimly horrified when he realized the gaffe he’d made.  “I didn’t mean to imply…I’m sorry, mate.”  Angelo had given him an acknowledging nod.  But somehow, Mike felt compelled to add, “But I know what you mean—I’ve been to thirty-nine.”

 

Angelo had laughed, loudly, making several of their fellow commuters look over at them.  “Now who has the big family, huh?”

 

Mike had smiled in spite of himself—he was by nature an amiable bloke, and Angelo had an extroverted charm that made others smile whenever he made a joke.  From there, the two of them had struck up a quiet conversation touching on their shared knack for putting people together.  With a nagging suspicion growing at the back of their minds, one day their increasingly frequent bus stop acquaintanceship soon came upon the question—“Have you ever dreamt about…?”—and the rest was history.  They set up a website to find others like them, and the membership trickled in.

 

As far as they could tell, there were about fifty of them scattered around the world, with about nine of them in the UK alone (the results were no doubt skewed due to the language barrier preventing others from finding the website).  The members messaged each other on the forum, sharing stories of some of the more bizarre couples they’d paired together and the differences in the appearance of the dream being.  They commiserated with one another about the difficulty of finding a partner of their own (or, for those who were already married/partnered when they’d received The Gift, the heartbreak that sometimes occurred when they introduced their significant other to a friend only to find that their S.O. had fallen in love with the friend).  The UK group often arranged a yearly meet-up, but the Londoners in particular met more frequently—about once every other month.

 

In April 2011, the four London “Cupids” were gathered together at the Criterion Restaurant, puzzling over something that had never happened before—a relationship that refused to take: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.  It was the pair Mike had felt compelled to introduce, the pair Angelo tried to nudge together with dinner candles and enthusiasm, the pair that Mrs. Hudson monitored and refereed whenever they’d had a “domestic.”  The fourth member of the group, Andy Galbraith, was a very recent addition—he’d only had the dream two months ago—but even he remembered John and Sherlock from when they’d interviewed him at the museum about Soo Lin, and whenever their names were brought up in discussion, he felt the sudden urge to write “John + Sherlock” on a napkin and draw a heart around it.  He was still getting used to the impulse.

 

“I just don’t understand it,” Mrs. Hudson said sadly, sipping at her tea.  “I’ve never seen two more stubborn young men.  And not just in the five years I’ve been in this business, mind.”

 

Angelo ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.  “Do you think…if I put _more_ candles on the table, that it would help?  Perhaps the mood isn’t romantic enough.”

 

Mike echoed the sigh.  “I don’t think that’s it.  They _live_ together.  And have you all read John’s blog recently?”  There was a chorus of nods around the table.  “I don’t think they could be more committed to each other…without actually _being_ committed to each other.”

 

Andy clutched at the napkin, fighting down the instinct to scribble hearts all over it.  He looked to Mrs. Hudson desperately.  “Can’t you just—you know—lock them together in a bedroom, or something?”

 

Mrs. Hudson patted his hand sympathetically.  “It doesn’t work like that, dear.  Besides, Sherlock is quite good at picking locks.”

 

Andy bit his lip, gave in, and took a pen from his shirt pocket and scrawled a heart-enclosed “JW + SH” on the napkin.  He slapped the pen on the table and scraped his fingers across his scalp.  “But _why_ can’t it work, though?” he asked.

 

“Sex can’t create a lasting relationship, Andy,” Mike said gently.  “I used to think that in my younger days when I was trying to pair people off, but I learnt pretty quickly that that wasn’t the case.  You’re still new at the job, but you’ll get the hang of it.”

 

“So…so, what then?” Andy asked.  “Do they just need to…to kiss, or something?  Say they love each other?  How do you know when the relationship takes?”  He suddenly looked down at the napkin to find that he’d unconsciously written another “Sherlock <3s John” on the napkin.  “Oh god,” he said, head in his hands.  “And please tell me I’m not going crazy.  I barely even _know_ them, why am I doing that?”

 

Angelo smiled and thumped Andy’s shoulder.  “No worries, _putto_ , that’s normal for the first few months.  I was giving the local strays romantic alley dinners when I started.  You’ll get better.”

 

Andy chuckled, feeling some of the nervous tension recede.

 

Mike Stamford chewed through a bit of his lasagna, swallowed, and said, “And you’ll know when a relationship takes—it feels a bit like how French toast tastes, if that makes sense.”

 

Angelo and Mrs. Hudson nodded in understanding, while Andy just looked even more confused.

 

“And it’s not as simple as a kiss,” Mike continued, patting a napkin to his mouth.  “Or even just saying they love each other.  People say they love each other all the time and don’t mean it.  It’s…”  He paused, trying to figure out how to word it.

 

“So…if they said it and meant it?” Andy tried, looking hopeful, bright-eyed, and young.

 

Mike cast a glance to Mrs. Hudson, and they shared a secret smile of experienced wisdom.

 

She patted Andy’s hand again and said, “Just a _little_ bit like that, dear.”

 

Andy pressed his palms against his eyes and sighed.  “These blokes are exhausting me.”

 

Angelo chortled and said, “Yes, that’s our Sherlock Holmes and John Watson for you, eh?”

 

Andy just managed not to grab the pen.

 

“Though Andy does have a point,” Mike said after a moment, idly running his fork through the tomato sauce.  “I can’t figure out what’s holding them back.  They have all the celibate passion they’d need to make it work.  Don’t they, Mrs. Hudson?”  He looked over to Mrs. Hudson with a worried furrow in his brow, as though he was no longer sure of the fact.

 

“What?” Andy said with a groan.  It seemed that there was a twist in this ‘love’ business no matter where he turned.

 

“Celibate passion, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, sipping a moment at her tea.  “There are times when a couple’s too sick or cranky to…well, you know.  You’re a young man yourself, I shouldn’t have to tell you.  I’m not your mother,” she said with a warm chuckle.  “Couples can only make it through the rough spots if they learn to love each other outside of that—if they learn to love doing little things together like shopping, going for walks, talking, eating together.  It makes those activities more fun to do.”

 

“When you can’t make love physically, you figure out other ways to do it,” Angelo supplied, cheeks dimpling.

 

Andy flushed a bit, remembering the feel of the being’s lips against his knuckles, the warmth of its laughter, the simple joy of seeing it smile and standing in its presence.

 

“And those two have more of that passion than they know what to do with,” Mrs. Hudson said with a nod towards Mike, reassuring him.  “Oh, yes, they get in spats every now and then, but that’s normal for every healthy couple that I’ve seen.  It seems to me the only thing holding them back is that they haven’t acknowledged to _themselves_ what they mean to each other, let alone told the other one what they think.”

 

Mike sighed heavily.  Though he was the most seasoned out of all of them, he still felt the annoying buzz of frustration in the back of his mind that poor Andy was currently feeling throughout his entire being.  “And we can’t push them more unless they acknowledge it themselves first,” he said.  “There’s nothing we can do about that.”

 

Andy chuckled gloomily, fidgeting and tapping his pen against the table.  “Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?” he said.  “That cupids can’t just _make_ people fall in love.  It’s not what you’d expect from the job description.”

 

“You had the dream like the rest of us, Andy.  You have to _go_ to Love, Love doesn’t come to you.  At best we just sort of…nudge people in the right direction,” Mike said.

 

For a solid minute, the table of cupids sat in silence, contemplating.  They could all feel that resonating drone in their minds, one that had been built up over months of unresolved tension, the sense that something _great_ was going to happen.  It was like the rumble of never-ending thunder, lacking in the satisfaction of a good, solid lightning crack.

 

“What if…” Angelo began hesitantly.  “…we called one of Them?”

 

“No,” Mike and Mrs. Hudson snapped.

 

“Absolutely not, Angelo,” Mrs. Hudson added.

 

‘They’ were the handful of cupids that drew a sharp, bitter taste on Mike’s tongue—the ones that shaped love through a minefield of pain and adversity; the wretched, crazed, and downright misanthropic ones that, for whatever reason, the being chose to extend its Gift to.  Mike didn’t trust the lot of them.

 

“But our boys are very strong,” Angelo said earnestly.  “And sometimes…well, sometimes people don’t know a good thing till it’s gone, yes?”

 

“We couldn’t do that to poor John and Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, shaking her head.  “Especially not to Sherlock, the dear.  You didn’t see him after that business with the Adler woman—John and I have never been so worried about him.  He wouldn’t eat.  He just played that violin of his all day and night.  And John’s the only person in the world that matters to him now, as far as that funny little head of his is concerned.”

 

“And John’s worlds away from the man I saw a year ago,” Mike said.  He sighed.  “No, we just couldn’t do that to either of them.”

 

There was another brief pause, in which everyone took a sip of whatever they were drinking.

 

Andy tapped his fingers against the mug of his coffee and blurted, “What if one of the bad ones finds them on his own?  I’ve only met Sherlock and John _once_ , and I’m sitting here with the jitters because they’re not together.  If one of the bad ones found them by accident, would they feel the same?”

 

Mrs. Hudson looked distinctly worried.  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she murmured, raising her hand above her lips.

 

“And in Sherlock’s line of work…” Angelo added, eyes wide.

 

Mike took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.  “I think we can only hope that that doesn’t happen.”  He put his glasses back on and blinked at his stricken companions, smiling sadly.  “I don’t think our hearts could take it.”

 

***

 

When it finally happened, they felt a resounding _crash_.  First there was the surge of euphoria, relief mixed with joy, like sucking in new oxygen after holding one’s breath too long.  Then it was as though a slab of cement had dropped on their heads, crushing them into the ground.

 

Mike staggered when standing up to teach his class, completely forgetting his entire lesson plan.  Mrs. Hudson dropped the tray of biscuits she was taking to the repairman.  Angelo slopped wine across a tablecloth.  Andy simply fell to his knees, unable to explain the tears running down his face.

 

“Oh god no,” Mike whispered, and cancelled class.

 

***

 

Mrs. Hudson was the first to know for sure what had happened, and for awhile she could do nothing but cry on John’s shoulder in her kitchen, with John who refused to cry, who was the one rubbing a hand across her back and soothing her, who was doing what she knew _she_ should be doing for him.  She had never felt so useless in her life.

 

When she’d eventually gotten a hold of herself and John had drifted upstairs, she called the others, one at a time, her voice rough from tears.  She didn’t know the arrangements yet, but she assumed that Mycroft would be handling it.  She had to box up Sherlock’s things, his science equipment—she could spare John that task, at least.  Maybe donate the equipment to a school.  She hoped Sherlock would have approved of his things being put to good use.

 

Mike called John the next day after he saw the post John had put on his blog.  John didn’t answer.  At the voicemail, Mike said, “John, it’s Mike.  I just found out what happened, and…Christ, mate, I’m so sorry.”  And there was so much more Mike wanted to apologize for.  He wanted to say: _I’m sorry I brought you into this_.  _I’m sorry I nudged you together.  I’m sorry I didn’t do more.  I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you from the start.  I’m sorry I’ve made it worse._   But he couldn’t say any of it.  So instead he said, “Please, let me know if I can meet you at the pub.  My phoneline’s open” and hung up.

 

Mike put his face in his hands, his heart still sick with the reflected grief that John must be feeling, and vowed to himself that if he ever met the bastard who’d done this, he’d slug him a good one—and maybe then some.  A year’s worth of waiting, all for nothing.

 

He called the others and asked if they could meet up the next day.

 

***

 

They sat around their customary table in stunned, distant silence.  Mrs. Hudson had explained that the funeral would be tomorrow, that John had told her that he wouldn’t be going, that she was relieved to get out of Baker Street (if only for a little while), and that she couldn’t stay too long at the restaurant—she didn’t want to leave John on his own.

 

But other than the murmured round of condolences, they were silent, sipping at their drinks.

 

Apart from Mrs. Hudson, Andy looked the worse for wear—his eyes were bloodshot, with dark sleepless bags hanging under them.  “Is it supposed to be this bad?” he croaked after a moment.  “When one of the bad ones gets your charges?”

 

Mike and Angelo shook their heads, unsure.  Mrs. Hudson patted at her eyes with a handkerchief.

 

“I don’t know, _putto_ ,” Angelo said.  “It hasn’t happened to any of us before.”

 

Another long silence as they felt the whirl of restaurant activity going on around them.  They fixed their gazes to the tablecloth, lost in thought.

 

Andy said quietly, “When I saw the being, in the dream, it looked like Soo Lin.”  He looked up to his companions.  “Do you think that means John will be joining us soon?”

 

Mrs. Hudson burst into tears, and Andy quickly put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Oh god, Mrs. Hudson, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean…I shouldn’t have said anything, I’m sorry.”

 

She patted his hand, sniffled, and said, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it, Andy.  But I wouldn’t wish that on poor John, not for anything.”

 

Mike smiled grimly.  “He’s lonely enough as it is.”

 

Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement and said, “I’d best be getting back to John.  I told him I was running errands—best not take too long.”

 

She stood up with a wobble, and Andy immediately got out of his chair to put a steadying hand on her back.  “Please, let me get you a cab, Mrs. Hudson,” he murmured, and she merely nodded in agreement.  Angelo and Mike got out of their chairs to give her a brief hug, with Angelo saying, “I’ll be by later with some food for both of you.  Don’t you worry about cooking for awhile.  I’ll make it myself.”  Mrs. Hudson said her thanks, and Mike and Angelo watched Andy escort her out of the restaurant.

 

Angelo turned to Mike and said, “Do you think Andy’s right?  About John joining us?”

 

Mike shook his head and sighed.  “We can’t know for sure.  That’s just how it worked for Andy, not for the rest of us.”

 

They watched through the windows of the Criterion as Andy hailed a cab and spoke with the driver, obviously offering to pay for Mrs. Hudson’s ride in advance.

 

“Perhaps it is the brokenhearted that need the most reassurance of love,” Angelo said solemnly.  “Maybe that is why the being came to our Andy.”

 

Mike said nothing, merely wondering at the trick of The Gift, that it could grant such happiness and despair in the same breath.

 

***

 

A couple of weeks after the disaster, Mike found himself pondering over why the ache in his chest refused to dissipate.  He taught his classes and went about his days as usual, but when he felt the tugs of potential couples—like the two students who sat in the third row that he could easily encourage by assigning them as lab partners—he just ignored the impulse.  Couples all around him went unintroduced, the energy of their potential dissolving into stagnation.  He found he just didn’t have the heart for it, and he knew the reason why: he was afraid of failing them.  Mike Stamford had never tasted the bitterness of failure before, not in this circumstance, and it felt all the worse because he felt _responsible_.  With John, he’d always feel that weight of guilt in his chest.  He didn’t want to add more to the load.

 

But one day, he bumped into Molly Hooper in the cafeteria and realized with a start that he hadn’t seen her around in weeks.  They normally didn’t talk to each other much—every now and then they ate lunch together—but he usually at least always _saw_ her.  Immediately he felt terrible, because everyone with eyes could’ve seen that she had a soft spot for Sherlock, and he hadn’t thought about her at all.

 

“Molly,” he said.  “Haven’t seen you around in awhile.”

 

“Oh, Mike,” she said, blinking at him in recognition.  She looked exhausted, not her usually quiet but cheerful self.  “Yeah, it’s been really busy lately,” she said, her eyes falling downcast.

 

“Want to sit together today?” he asked, and she nodded in agreement.

 

They were halfway through their sandwiches when she finally said, “It feels strange without Sherlock around.”

 

Mike nodded.  “Yeah.  You get used to him ordering everyone around, always asking for this and that.  It feels like the whole building’s lost some of its personality without him in it.”

 

She nodded, taking a delicate bite out of her turkey sandwich.  She suddenly looked at him, her eyes serious and bright.  “Mike, did you ever think he was a fake?”

 

Mike blinked and thought for a moment before shaking his head.  “No, I don’t think so.  I don’t think anyone’s who’s spent time with him could believe that.  He knew everything about me the moment he saw me.”

 

She nodded, and a small smile graced her mouth briefly.  “Good,” she said, then took a more vigorous bite out of her sandwich.

 

Mike returned the smile, for a moment admiring the steadfastness of this quiet woman, when suddenly he felt a tug, and he found himself imagining Andy Galbraith sitting next to her, with the two of them sharing shy smiles.  Mike nearly dropped his sandwich.  The more he pictured it, the more _right_ it felt—these two quiet but determined kids, stronger and more caring than other people gave them credit for.  Mike had never paired off another cupid before—could it work?  Could enlisting one cupid to help another cupid solve that relationship problem the forum complained about day after day?  Molly and Andy—it could work.  He was sure of it.

 

Mike cleared his throat.  “Have you heard about that new mummy exhibit at the museum, Molly?  I have a friend there that might be able to let you get a closer look at it if you like.”

 

She looked interested.  Mike grinned wider, feeling in the midst of that lingering heartache a sudden, familiar thrill in his veins.  Maybe—just maybe—there was hope that things could change for the better after all.

 

And Mike would bet on hope any day.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. DISCLAIMER: So I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge that a small section of this fic isn't strictly mine, namely the definition/explanation of 'celibate passion.' I borrowed (and downright quoted) that explanation from the following:
> 
> "Any marriage has times of separation, ill-health, or just plain crankiness, in which sexual intercourse is ill-advised. And it is precisely the skills of celibate friendship--fostering intimacy through letters, conversation, performing mundane tasks together (thus rendering them pleasurable), savoring the holy simplicity of a shared meal, or a walk together at dusk--that can help a marriage survive the rough spots. When you can't make love physically, you figure out other ways to do it." (Norris, Kathleen. "Celibate Passion." In _The Cloister Walk._ New York: Riverhead Books, 1996. Pg. 118.)
> 
> It's an incredibly fascinating nonfiction memoir, basically about the author's experiences as a married oblate getting to know the community of Benedictine monks and nuns that were a part of her residency. (In her words, an oblation is "an abbreviated yet powerful profession of monastic vows; you attach yourself to a particular monastery by signing a document on the altar during Mass, in which you promise to follow the Rule of St. Benedict insofar as your situation in life will allow" [xvii].) I'd recommend the book to anyone; it gives a very different perspective of monasticism than what you'd expect.
> 
> 2\. So I know we're still reeling from Reichenfeels, but PLEASE GET ON MY MOLLY/ANDY SHIP. Please? Because they'd be the cutest things ever? And they're literally perfect for each other? We have kittens and cookies? So help me, I will start shanghai-ing people onto this ship if I have to.
> 
>  


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